Page 88 of Just One More Thing

I’m an adult and still afraid this town might ground me.

The dock to Jake’s is dark except for the warm glow coming from his boathouse at the far end. The screen door is closed, so I tap out our special knock, the one we invented at eleven and never officially retired.

Hank answers before Jake does, nosing the door open and pressing his whole solid self against me. “Hi, baby,” I breathe, dropping to my knees.

He wiggles with his entire body, then rises and plants his front paws on my shoulders for a hug.

Jake is on a ladder when I walk in, stretching to change a light bulb in the ceiling. His shirt rides up, and I take a moment to admire the view of his abs and that narrow trail of hair disappearing into the low waistband of his jeans.

The happy trail.

Now there’s a trail I’d like to ride.

He looks down and catches me staring at his… everything. “Mo.” His mouth curves into a shit-eating grin. “You okay down there?”

“Eep,” I squeak, slapping a hand over my eyes.

Silence.

I spread two fingers just enough to peek through them. He’s still looking at me, his smile spreading.

“Nice hoodie.”

“You like it?”

“I do.” He looks back to the ceiling, twisting the lightbulb. “Just wondering if you prefer sleeping in it or the jersey?”

My whole body locks up. “How do you?—“

He huffs a laugh. “Oh I know, Mo.”

I give him my best one shoulder shrug and stare anywhere other than at him. I’m not confirming or denying anything. ButI’m absolutely having a conversation with Granny, because she’s the only person who could’ve ratted me out.

Then the rest of the room catches up with me.

It’s the first time I’ve stood inside this house in ten years.

We spent our days running in and out for snacks and drinks when we were kids, the screen door slamming behind us every single time, announcing our comings and goings to the whole bay like punctuation.

I’ve always loved this place. His dad converted it from a boathouse the summer before Jake was born, and it still holds that origin story in its bones. Old beams crossing the vaulted ceiling, thick salt worn rope loosely wrapped around them. The plank walls are dark and weathered, the kind that’s been through decades of storms.

The wall of windows faces the bay, and in the distance you can see the Atlantic. We used to sit here as kids and watch the summer storms roll in like we were the only two people in the world and the weather was performing just for us.

The wood burning fireplace is covered in oyster shells, rough and white and beautiful. His mom’s paintings hang on the walls and sit on easels vivid and warm like she was. Above the mantel hangs a painting of The Pinch of Tides I don’t remember seeing before.

Black and white photos cover the walls, and my stomach tightens when I realize how many of them include me. The summers. The dock. The grinning evidence of who we used to be.

They weren’t taken down.

This home holds everyone who ever mattered inside it.

It tells a story.

“The kitchen looks different,” I say, because if I say what I’m actually thinking, I’ll cry before we’ve even sat down.

“Mom updated it the year… a few years ago,” he says, climbing down from the ladder.

“Jake, I’m so sor?—“